


Once Upon a Spring

by December Dragon (StarlightOnInk)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Anastasia 2017, Broadway Anastasia, Broadway References, Hetalia, M/M, Musical, Nationverse, RusAme, canonverse, waiting for spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 16:51:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13194420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightOnInk/pseuds/December%20Dragon
Summary: In 1997, 20th Century Fox released an animated movie of the young Russian grand duchess, Anastasia searching for home, love, and family. On a cold December evening twenty years later, America excitedly takes Russia to see the new Broadway play inspired by the same beloved movie. Amidst the wintry chill, Russia sees the effort and love that went into the production, and is exposed to a whole new kind of appreciation America and his people have for him. RusAme oneshot.





	Once Upon a Spring

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write this so those who have not seen the play may enjoy it; this drew on information from personal experiences and those voiced by others. The details included and excluded were chosen so you might still enjoy the fic, enjoy the references to the play, not feel spoiled, but also feel you learned about it to appreciate the sheer beauty of the play. I really can't say enough good things about that musical.
> 
> Eternal thanks to derevosky for majorly valuable musical insight!

**Once Upon a Spring**

Wind whipped Russia’s scarf as he stood beside America, nipping at exposed faces and ruffling hair. The distant clamoring of construction and excited chatter would have made it difficult to hear someone even a foot away, but America always managed to make himself heard.

“Thanks for coming to this,” he said for the eighth time that day.

Russia regarded him with light amusement. “I am staying at your home for the week- I had to come.”

“Not true! You-”

“I am joking, Alfred.” A large hand rubbed consoling circles into America’s back, massaging some of the tension away. “I am happy to be here.”

Relieved, but unwilling to fully forgive the teasing so soon, America glowered, stepping out from under Russia’s hand. Russia laughed softly at America’s stubborn display, stepping aside to let a crowd of fellow theatre-goers pass by.

“Really, Alfred. You are too easy to rile up. You should know by now I enjoy all our time together. Especially when you reveal your obsession with me.”

That roused America from his brooding. “What, for one play? Don’t flatter yourself, Braginsky, I’m not obsessed with you.”

At that moment, a gaggle of friends exited the theatre, talking and singing excitedly, “ _It’s a complicated Russian novel, everyone’s got nine different names_.” In their hands were clutched playbills for _Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812_.

Russia stared at America. He was able to witness the interesting shades of red his face went through in the span of several seconds.

“Just…come on.” America grabbed a fistful of Russia’s jacket and pulled him along, scowling at the melodious laughter from beside him.

Immediately beyond the theatre doors warmth splashed across their faces. The ornate lights lining the walls and hanging from the lobby ceiling gave everything a rich golden glow. Ushers greeted the many parties milling through the doorway, and their tickets were traded for playbills. Treading carefully, everyone wended their way into the theatre proper, and from there Russia and America located their seats.

“You did not have to do all this,” Russia insisted, as they situated themselves only a few rows from the front, perfectly centered in front of the stage. He fell silent. Beside him, America had not bothered replying, choosing instead to enjoy Russia’s look of open surprise as he took in the stage.

Hung down the front was a scrim, its primary colors a faded blend of blue and white. Delicate gold scrollwork wound around the edge, and across the bottom in the same gold palette stood the images of two buildings: the Eiffel Tower on the right, and on the left was-

“And yes, I was sure to get the right one,” America said, the delighted smile audible in his tone.  “Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood in St. Petersburg.”

“That looks very nice,” Russia said, voice sounding somewhat distant. Connecting the two structures was the golden image of what appeared to be a bridge. How poetic. Russia glanced at America, then back ahead, just then seeing the proud double-headed eagle perched above the stage, overseeing everything.

“You were involved in this.” It was not a question.

America’s smile turned softer. His hand found a place on Russia’s arm. “I was, yeah. But everyone involved was only too enthusiastic to put all this together. They wanted this to be special as much as I did.”

Russia found he could not meet America’s eye, too busy fighting back a bemused smile and failing. From the seat next to him, he felt America bounce excitedly up and down, enthusiasm recharged. “But wait until you see the rest of it, man. It’s come such a long way. Gosh, I can’t believe I’m finally showing y- oh my god. _You’re actually seeing it_.” Russia glanced over in time to see America’s own face change colors several times in barely three seconds, going from unnaturally pale to sickly green to beet red. It was only for America’s sake that Russia fought down the laughter bubbling in his chest, always finding his lover’s expressive reactions so entertaining to watch.

“Yes, and I will not be enjoying anything if you get sick on me. Relax, Alfred, that is what we are here to do.” He clasped the hand on his arm bracingly. America sighed, seeming to deflate as he did so, and rested against Russia further still with a dramatic noise of resignation. At this, Russia did allow himself a laugh.

The excited rumble of voices around them coupled with America’s warmth beside him put Russia in good spirits; the same could even be said for America, who at least seemed excited once more, though he occasionally chewed idly on his nails in anticipation. He nearly leapt from the seat when the lights dimmed, a signal ubiquitous enough that Russia really did not need America to tap his chest incessantly to know the show was about to start.

Russia remembered seeing the animated _Anastasia_ movie back in the late 90’s, first at home, then over at America’s house, upon Alfred’s insistence; Ivan had explained he had already watched it, but Alfred wanted to witness the occurrence firsthand. Tonight, on this early December evening, Alfred had arranged to once again observe Ivan’s reactions to one of his people’s creations. About Russia.

America had seemed particularly excited leading up to this evening, and unsurprisingly none of that energy was dissipating now that the moment of truth was upon them.

Immediately, the starting notes of the play harkened back to the animated movie, the music a grand performance promising a production of equally sweeping scope. The previously opaque blue scrim remained in place, but became semi-transparent, revealing a bedroom with two figures in it: one the Dowager Empress, and the other meant to be little Anastasia.

Ivan watched with polite amusement as the young girl despaired at her grandmother’s departure, only briefly glancing to the side when he felt Alfred’s grip on his arm tighten consolingly. He raised an eyebrow. Alfred responded with a comforting smile. Ivan shook his head, focusing back on the stage.

It did not take long for Russia to realize why America was so eager for him to see the results of all the hard work that went into this production; the costumes were mesmerizing in their own right. As the dancers glided across the stage in glittering swirls of whirling fabric and glistening jewels and flashing gold, something warm blossomed in Russia’s chest. This time it was he who tore his eyes away from the resplendent waltz to glance at America, hoping his gaze reflected just some of the fondness he was feeling. As the immortal representations of their respective lands, nothing was quite as flattering as seeing their cultures appreciated and studied with such respect and appreciation. Based on the delighted smile America gave him, he had some idea of what Russia was feeling.

The graceful movements continued, interrupted briefly when-

Russia stiffened in his seat, sucking in a breath and bracing for a coming wail. In front of him, Alexei had joined the dancing, only to trip, falling bodily to the floor. A second later, he was surrounded by a swirl of skirts as his family drew close in concern. Though seeming shaken, Alexei was able to stand up again. Slowly, Russia let himself relax, blinking in surprise at his own reaction. So many times, to the point that it became instinctive, he would be at the tsarevich’s side when the boy was injured; plagued by hemophilia, his blood did not clot, and even a simple bump to the knee would have been excruciating. Every scream of pain had torn at his heart, and sometimes he could remember the exhausted voice ask, “It won’t hurt in heaven, right?”

Shaking himself, Russia eased back against his seat once more.

Lights flashed as the dance continued, and soon the family was posing, as they had so often in reality, for so many photographs. Picture after picture after-

The last photograph was taken, and so was the last breath of the empire, and all the world set upon the stage was tinted red, and one by one Romanov and loyal attendee fled, until there was only Anastasia, darted forward for her music box, until with a flash she was gone too.

“All of them?”

Three words carried all the broken hopes and shattered happiness of a woman robbed of everything. Russia tried picturing the Dowager Empress of reality saying such a phrase…tried to remember, indeed, what he knew of her reaction to the deaths.

All he could recall was her fierce denial, how the former ruler of one-tenth of the earth did not believe there had been a massacre at all for anyone to survive.

He shifted in his seat, blinking.

The snow died down; the melancholy of the world skittered delicately away, and barely had the silvery sorrow dissolved to silent blackness than songs reminiscent of patriotic Soviet tunes began, and the people of Russia were promised a better tomorrow.

No one believed those vows. They sang as much, much to the chagrin of the frustrated officer, who left when intimidation proved useless on this crowd.

As they continued singing “Rumor in St. Petersburg” Russia leaned close to America’s ear.

“These are not the lyrics from the movie.”

It was America’s turn to shift in his seat, and he was doing quite a lot of it, keeping his eyes fixed determinedly on the stage; Russia could see the discontent civilians reflected in his glasses. “Um. Well. Yeah. They, uh, wanted to be more…”

“More what?”

“Um. Gritty?”

Russia took one more moment to savor America’s obvious discomfort before settling back in his seat, satisfied for the moment.

The song continued, each main character introduced, with the two conmen Vlad and Dmitri formulating their plan to have a girl pose as the long lost grand duchess Anastasia. A timid streetsweeper crossed paths with the officer from before, and the crowd from before speculated if Anastasia really could be alive.

As the play continued, Russia and America would take turns leaning close and quietly murmuring comments, Russia making polite comments and America either pointing something out or asking Russia’s thoughts.

When the scene changed, from a bridge along the Neva to inside a darkened, ghostly palace, and “Once Upon a December” began, Russia was again impressed by the remarkable craftsman ship and attention to detail evident in the costume design. Between the eerie atmosphere and spectral imagery, Russia was quite surprised when America began urgently tapping at his shoulder. Head swiveling, Russia was about to shoot him a reproachful look for breaking the spell. His protest died in his throat as his eyes widened, gazing at the walls. He was not the only one.

Along the walls of the theatre, images of dancers in Russian court attire swayed and spun together in their haunting purgatory, projected on the walls and pillars, some dancing slowly a mere foot from the seats. All the while, the same haunting waltz continued, now both on stage and amongst the audience members.

All too soon, it seemed, the illusion faded, and cast members and audience alike were gently settled back into a reality of uncertainty. America watched Russia’s look of surprise, drinking in every bit of it with enthusiasm, more than pleased that particular part of the production had been so effective. Russia applauded loudly with the rest of the audience, nodding in approval as America beamed.

It was during “Learn to Do It” that Russia gave his loudest chuckle yet, but it was not when anyone else was laughing. It was the same part that he always laughed at in the movie.

“You threw tantrums and terrorized the cook,” Vlad said melodiously. “How the palace shook!”

“She terrorized _me_ ,” Russia murmured, shoulders still shaking slightly in mirth. America raised his eyebrows with a pleased look of his own. “Dumped mud into my pockets, tied my boot laces together, threw snowballs with rocks in them- I learned quickly to catch any of those she threw at me. Never a quiet moment with Nastenka.” The look of fondness remained on his face throughout the musical number. “Poor Tanechka, though, she got hit hard with one once. I made sure she only threw them at me after that.”

More songs, more conspiracies, more references to places and people in Russian history and culture- much more than either movie combined, it felt like. Russia’s eyes flicked to America, briefly regarding the excited man beside him, as if trying to figure out the answer to a puzzle.

Russia had not arrived at that puzzle yet when America sucked in a sharp breath, stiffening in his seat. On stage, the trio had arrived at the train station, huddled with other passengers waiting to climb on.

The announcement came for their train.

No one moved.

They stood sentient, waiting, just as they would have in Russia, just as Ivan himself would have done before a journey from his home. Except he would not have that wane look of wariness, knowing his departure was permanent. He would never leave forever.

At last, a lone figure spoke up, standing tall yet looking for all the world as if a great weight hung from his shoulders, tugged at the hem of his coat, trying to claw him down, though he would not yield.

_How can I desert you?_

_How to tell you why?_

_Coachmen, hold the horses-_

_Stay, I pray you._

_Let me have a moment,_

_Let me say goodbye_

_To bridge and river,_

_Forest and waterfall,_

_Orchard, sea, and sky._

_Harsh and sweet_

_And bitter to leave it all._

_I’ll bless my homeland til I die_.

The singer, introduced moments before as Count Ipolitov, led his fellow refugees in a slow, mournful farewell to their country, offering a somber, melodious vow to cherish that home right up until their dying breaths. Soon, the whole train station was offering goodbyes and that same heartfelt promise, each departing as the song drew to a close, until Anya stood, alone in the station, giving one last look around at her Russia, sad, longing eyes sweeping around, landing and lingering right on-

“I’ll bless my homeland til I die.”

She too boarded the train to leave what had been her birthright.

The train began to move, and America quickly looked over to catch Ivan’s reaction to the unique approach to such a setting.

Only to find Russia’s gaze unfocused, distant, eyes fixed on the stage, but mind seeming somewhere else. He had not reacted with the audience as the song ended, had not fully processed each person’s departure from the station, at least, not in real time. His mind seemed sluggish, taking a lifetime to watch each individual turn away, until only the timid yet fierce little waif remained. Each turned back, each fleeing passenger, had taken with them something deep, something nestled within, with the promise to cherish that intimate shard, and doing so, but leaving in their wake a pervading hollowness. And while that emptiness from within persisted, from without Russia felt a warm presence at his side- America, adjusting nonchalantly in his seat to lean more against Russia, his hand finding Russia’s with practiced ease. As if waking slowly from a trance, Russia clasped it, the movement slow yet instinctive.

Their singing had a slow, marauding quality, as if the very words themselves were marching sluggish and unwilling forward to a world too harsh for them. As more singers joined, their words remained sung in unison, forging a mounting swell of melodious mourning, solidifying their unity in this harsh experience. The sonorous melismas seemed to originate right from their feet and up through their bodies, the moaning bringing with it the pain of displaced peoples from every inch of their being. Even without words, the moaning seemed to still be speaking of loss, a molten aching speech that nestled deep in Russia’s chest, expanding to drown him from the inside.

Russia could not help but wonder at the looks upon the people as they stared out into the sweeping, cavernous unknown before them. Even as actors…no, it felt like much more than acting. In that stretch of time before everyone boarded the train, each face had worn the same dazed look of fearful anticipation, the kind of excitement that came only with leaping fully into the dangers of hope. But still always, always, with a restless want that could not be satisfied, as if by reaching for that treacherous hope, they needed to first let go of something precious to the heart.

For one wild moment, Russia wondered if he was for the first time in his life seeing what his people might have looked like as they left him.

But no. No. He knew better. They left and never looked back, and did so without a second glance. For how else did one leave someone like Russia, like Ivan?

And yet…those looks came from some real emotion.

Could that possibly be the sadness felt when leaving him?

“That was not in the movie.”

The words were said more to himself than to America as, onstage, the train turned, the background of a road moving with it, giving the illusion of actually being on board a locomotive going down a winding track. Still somewhat shaken,

The trio bantered back and forth, and sang of their trepidations and hopes for life in Paris. Tensions mounted as the train was stopped and officers strolled on, looking to apprehend anyone with falsified documents. There was a brief commotion in the back, as one of the passengers was dragged from his seat, off the train and-

_BANG!_

Anya gasped and recoiled. There was now an empty seat where Count Ipolitov had previously sat. The Count, the singer from before, now lay dead, his body sprawled lifelessly beyond the prying eyes of the world.

 _I’ll bless my homeland til I die_.

Anya’s weeping was the only sound filling the theatre.

Russia looked away, breathing out through his nose, searching for some sensory perception to focus on instead of the cruel reality laughing in his face. Vaguely, he watched the train begin to move again, and Anya, Vlad, and Dmitri scramble to leave as they saw they too had a price on their heads. From the train they leapt, and back in Leningrad, the officer, Gleb, was indignant at their escape, vowing to bring Anya to justice, the same justice that had befallen Count Ipolitov’s aching love for his country. In spite of himself, Russia could not help but think, _Why did you have to try and leave? Was it worth it? You should have stayed! You would be alive had you just stayed. Why did you try and leave?_

 _You know why he tried_ , Ivan thought with alarming certainty. _He did what he had to_.

Finally, they had arrived in France.

“It looks just like Russia,” Dmitri noted. The audience laughed.

“France does _not_ look like Russia!” Vlad protested indignantly.

How true.

“Russia is more beautiful,” Anya said firmly.

Immediately, Russia turned to catch America’s reaction and was not disappointed by what he found. America was hunched in his seat slightly, lips pressed in a thin line, fingers tugging restlessly at the collar of his shirt as America looked determinedly ahead. Mood sufficiently improved, Russia leaned close and pressed a kiss to America’s cheek.

“That is nice you think so,” he breathed, delighting in the sight of America shrinking further into himself.

Chuckling quietly at the pained moans coming from one seat over, Russia let himself settle once more into watching the conclusion of Act 1, where Anya performed an emotional rendition of “Journey to the Past,” eyes visibly wet, cheeks and nose red, voice powerful and full of hope. Russia applauded with the others as the song concluded, the stage darkened and the seats lit up. The clamor around them grew as audience members turned in their seats to talk about what they had just seen, or else shuffled out to stretch their legs. Russia reclined in his chair, only to have to stand and exit the row of seats to allow others to fit by his bulky frame. Alfred merely leaned closer into his chair as others squeezed by. When everyone was clear, Russia remained standing, knowing he would just need to repeat the process in a few minutes. Seeing this, America scrambled to join him.

America opened his mouth. Paused. Bit his lip. Russia waited, wanting America to initiate.

“So…how do you like it so far?”

Russia noted the nervous excitement twinkling in America’s eyes, and those dazzling blues stirred something warm in his chest, something fond and flattered.

“It is clear a lot of effort went into this, Fedya.” His eyes swept briefly to the decadent blue scrim and gilded frame. “All of this for a show about Russia.”

“Mmmmwell…about…Anastasia…” America scratched at the back of his neck, unable to fight down a bashful grin.

“But I do not remember any of these… other feelings being included in the movies,” Russia pressed, wrapping an arm around America’s shoulders. His grip tightened as he felt the other squirm in his hold, both laughing softly. Russia stole another kiss, this time to America’s temple. “No, no, do not be coy- I like hearing how much I mean to you.” Even if it seemed surreal. “Those were nice little moments to sprinkle in there.”

At that, America’s fidgeting became worse, and at last Russia released him. America stepped back with a huff, straightening his suit, face considerably more red than it had been before.

“The costumes are well done too,” Russia added as audience members began to trickle back in. “Whoever was in charge did quite a bit of research.” Another point of flattery.

“Oh, that’s all Linda Cho’s fine work!” Though his cheeks were still stained, America’s smile was enthusiastic. “She looked at pictures from way back when for reference, and carefully chose all the fabrics and materials for each costume.”

“The _kokishniki_ are very nice.” Indeed, the pointed headpieces the women had worn each had their own unique splendor that did not overshadow, but rather enhanced the rest of their garments. “Alexandra’s dress looked very close to a dress she actually wore.”

“Yep. That’s because real pictures were referenced!” As Russia felt a delightful swell of flattery at all the loving details included in the play, America was visibly glowing with pride at his people’s hard work and accomplishments. It was an exchange Russia was willing to make, after what he had seen so far.

The chatter reached a renewed volume as everyone worked to get back to their seats. Russia let the others sidle passed before returning to his own seat as well, America right behind him. When just about everyone was seated once more, the music resumed and the lights around them darkened.

“Paris Holds the Key” was a fun, sweeping musical number, introducing them to the vibrancy and life of Paris after the hushed, subdued caution of Soviet life. No more was Anya dressed in lumpy clothes of dull browns that hid most of her figure; here, she enjoyed dresses and glitter and glamor. America shifted around more and more as the second act proceeded, nearly jumping when Russia rested a firm hand on his knee. Rather than relaxing, however, Russia could feel the muscle twitching beneath his fingers as America’s restlessness continued. Russia shook his head, deciding not to let America distract him, which proved relatively easy.

He tilted his head in mild interest as more and more people referenced a group called the Neva Club, treating it as a sort of haven for displaced Russians. Though the name was likely arbitrarily chosen, Russia gave a small thoughtful nod of approval, knowing pockets of Russian emigres had indeed formed in Paris.

Most colorful among the denizens of the Neva Club seemed to be Countess Lily. One of the gentlemen asked how she was.

“Every day is one day less.” There was a pause. “I’m being Russian. I love life,” she added flatly. The audience laughed appreciatively, while Russia himself looked amusedly at America.

“Am I a pessimist?” he asked.

The sheepish smile America had been wearing disappeared, replaced immediately be a scowl. “Um, the original pessimist, yeah.” Russia’s laughter joined that of the audience.

“It’s like our great poet said-“ began one emigre.

“Which one? We have so many!”

“Pushkin!”

“Lermontov!”

“Chekhov!”

Russia swore he could feel America’s blush across the armrest. He sent one knowing look. _I have_ so many _great poets?_

America seemed to be begging to disappear.

The set changed, walls slid in from the wings of the stage, and soon they were settled amidst the warm reds and browns and golds of the Neva Club; the music took in an implacable quality, and Russia’s brow furrowed as he tried to get a handle on it.

Next to him, America suddenly perked up. From the corner of his eye, Russia saw America briefly raise his arm, making some pointing gesture. But the second Russia made to see what he was doing, America was back to his original position. Brow furrowed, Russia opened his mouth to speak, only for the music and singing to begin anew.

_Once, I had a palace,_

_Here, merely a flat._

_I fled with some diamonds and that was that_.

The music definitely had strong American influences, with an undeniable jazz-like quality. But the clothes worn by the club members would not have looked out of place at a Russian cultural exhibit- or even right from the history books. The skirts on the women swished magnificently as they twirled, and the tall boots on the men accented their powerful kicks. These moves in turn only increased in power as the music picked up, and Russia’s eyes widened in surprise as he heard-

“Is that a balalaika?”

America merely smiled, resuming his restless shifting.

_Pass me a glass_

_And give me a bow_

_And drink to the Countess Nobody now!_

_Why should I care_

_As long as I dare to live_

_In the land of yesterday?_

_Let’s run up the bill_

_As if we’re still royalty at play_

_In Russia,_

_Land of yesterday_.

Russia stared in shock as the club members sang and danced, the entire song now something of a hybrid between Russian and American musical traditions. It took America’s delighted gaping at him for Russia to realize his foot was even bobbing to the rhythm. He had completely forgotten about America’s strange behavior when-

“Yes, here’s to _Russia_!”

Several club members made a sweeping gesture towards where he and America sat.

“Here’s to _Russia_!” More still performed the same gesture.

“Here’s to _Russia_!” Lily herself, right in the middle of the stage, reached imperiously out right towards Ivan, her eyes locking unmistakably onto his own- hers, and every other club member, holding their gazes for an entire eternal beat before resuming their dance.

_Land of yesterday-_

_Hey!_

The audience erupted into applause, muffled slightly to Russia’s ears as he retreated further into his scarf, like a turtle into his shell. The raucous clapping did not drown out America’s delighted laughter next to him, nor the sound of him slapping his knee appreciatively. Russia was stiff as a board when America happily dreamed himself beside him, still shaking gently with mirth. It was not until halfway between “The Countess and the Common Man” that Russia began to thaw-

“Those are our signals!” he hissed indignantly.

On stage, Lily and Vlad were reminiscing about their love affair, and had reenacted the gestures they would use to tell the other it was time to disappear together. They were the same exact gestures he and America had used for decades now.

America shrugged, grinning cheekily.

Russia resumed watching the play as best he could, casting swift looks at America for any sign of more danger. None came. In fact, Russia realized with a start, quite the opposite was approaching.

Russia sat upright, even leaning forward in his seat as the trio, the Dowager Empress, and Gleb settled down to watch a ballet, _with actual ballerinas_.

Russia was blind to America’s fascinated stares, instead openly beaming in reverential delight as he watched the delicate yet awe-inspiringly powerful movements of the ballerinas, feeling delighted and overwhelmed and like he was falling in love all over again-

Well, America did not need to know that part.

Their movements were practiced, polished, flawless, mighty, graceful, refined, sharp yet flowing. The music they danced to, while blended with “Once Upon a December” also sounded like something his composers would produce from the tsarist era. Russia’s eyes burned dangerously, but happily.

When they finished, Russia rose to his seat, clapping loudly and heartily, only sitting back down when America gave a particularly hard tug. He turned a wet, loving smile to America, reminding himself to kiss the man later- and to recruit the dancers.

Russia reacted appropriately with the rest of the audience when the moment of truth approached for the main characters, when Anya was to meet and be reunited with her grandmother. The tension could be cut with a knife, so thick and tight was it stretched between these two people who had been so close, yet were now as strangers. Russia again found himself remembering the Dowager Empress as he had known her, a delightful, warm, welcomed presence in the country, adored by so many, before being unable to ever return to the land that had loved her and despised her son.

Still, the costumes remained works of art, and the musicians played at emotions as skillfully as they played their instruments. The reunion occurred, misunderstandings were made and resolved, and Anya and Gleb were forced to confront their own pasts and those of each other. Gleb stood before Anya, now donned in her own regalia, as, behind them, the royal family faced their executioners. Past and present melded into one, as Gleb found himself in the same position his father had been in years ago, staring down the barrel of his gun at an unarmed innocent, forced to decide if he would question his orders or not.

As it went with so many American stories, the ending wrapped up nicely, tied in a neat little bow of happiness and security. In this way, it deviated not only from history, but from the reality Russia knew his life to be. In this way, he and America would always approach things very differently. But in this way… Alfred had given Nastenka the ending Ivan could not.

Past and present again sang as one at curtain call, and the music of “Rumor in St. Petersburg” was given a definitively Russian makeover. Russia’s head bobbed gently and appreciatively as he rose first among the audience to applaud everyone who had taken the time to so lovingly forge a story beyond the scope of the initial movies, beyond the depth of the many tales of pretenders like Anna Anderson, and crafted something…something for Russia. Not necessarily for the man, Ivan, but for the land itself, the persistent land of people who knew just how much feeling the human soul was capable of expressing, who knew and appreciated the existence of a world not made up of black and white, but entirely in gray. They knew this about Russia, and splashed their presentation of it with every color in the spectrum, and Ivan stood that night feeling unprecedently appreciated.

The cast members beamed in thanks, waving and bowing and curtsying. All seemed to follow the usual procedures of a curtain call.

And then the man who portrayed Gleb stepped forward, and his fellow cast members offered words of congratulations and mourning, for tonight would be his, Ramin Karimloo, final day with the team. Though it was unlikely he would be seen, Russia offered a sympathetic but respectful look.

Then, some of the others voiced less predictable wishes.

And before Russia knew it, the actor was unbuttoning his shirt.

Based on America’s spluttering, he was just as surprised as Russia.

The actress who portrayed Lily quickly shielded the eyes of the little girl playing Anastasia as a child. By this point, Ramin was thoroughly bare-chested, a sight Russia saw for a heartbeat before his vision was obstructed by America’s hand. Like Lily onstage, America was shielding the eyes of someone close to him.

Russia laughed, batting impatiently at America’s hand, laughing harder still when America did not relent. The crowed whooped, ladies whistled, and Vlad said wistfully, “What better way to celebrate a play about empowering women than exploiting men.”

Freed from America’s fussing, Russia too offered a single appreciative whistle.

0o0o0

Wind buffeted them once more as they exited the theatre, America leading them slowly through the throng of people to the stage door to receive autographs, and to thank them for going along with his stunt during “Land of Yesterday.” All the while, he threw question after question at Russia, asking how he liked the entire play, how were the costumes, what was his favorite song. Normally one to tease or ignore America’s slew of statements when he got like this, tonight Russia was sure to have an answer for everything.

It was the least he could do, feeling a lingering gratitude he could never fully explain or thank America and those involved in the play for.

“So…” They had reached the line at the stage door. America shifted from foot to foot, fiddling with his playbill. “Which version do you think was more like her, like the real Anastasia, I mean? This or either of the two movies?”

Russia stared at him. “I have no way of knowing what she would have been like at that age,” he said bluntly. Truthfully.

America dipped his head, shoulders hunched. He seemed to wince at his own lack of foresight. Or Russia’s earnest response. “I- ah, right, yeah.” He paused, steeling himself. “So which do you _think_ is most like her?”

Russia remained silent for a moment, considering this, considering all the tales people had insisted on making up surrounding the mischievous little imp who never let a day go by without pulling a prank, who was unafraid to get dirty, who lived up to her name, resurrection, by always, _always_ returning to him in some way.

“I think she would have been the strong, stubborn, beautiful woman your productions show her as.”

America stared up into Russia’s somber yet affectionate eyes, searching. The silence before them stretched but was not uncomfortable. At last, America smiled softly and nodded. “Yeah. I like to think so too. I’m…glad.”

“I am too.”

In that late December evening, spring was still far beyond their reach, yet for the moment the light from what he had just seen, just experienced, was enough to warm Ivan for some time.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Again, eternal thanks to derevosky for providing remarkable musical analysis. This is her area of study and thus she was able to explain so much of what was going on in the many songs of Broadway’s Anastasia. As a result, I was able to incorporate what she explained into the descriptions of this, and what Russia might appreciate. If you have the means, I wholeheartedly encourage you to see the play, and if you can’t, you can still indulge in and thoroughly enjoy the soundtrack, for each song stands on its own as memorable and utterly beautiful.
> 
> I tried to make this enjoyable to people who might not have seen the play.
> 
> And yes, that really did happen on Ramin’s last day. You can see videos of it on tumblr. It’s glorious.
> 
> The title is a mix of “Once Upon a December” from Anastasia, and “waiting for spring,” one of the ship names for RusAme.
> 
> Reviews are more than welcome! Please let me know what you think!


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